When we were small and threw up, my Dad would always come in and clean up after us. When I was in elementary school, we lived in a house in St. Pete. One night, Just like Miss Clavel, I woke up with the panicked realization that something was not right. I remember vividly booking it to the bathroom to throw up. I began to cry, and my mom's voice drifted out of the bedroom, asking me if I was alright. "No," I moaned pitifully. "Okay honey, Daddy's coming." For years we would tease my mom about her puking delegation. "Hey," my mom would say, "Your Dad and I had a deal. He did vomit, I did poop. I DON'T do vomit."
Guess what? I am my mother. Emma started puking this morning. Bless her heart, she is a champion puker. She goes straight for the toilet and hardly complains. She has always been like that. A couple times though, she had to use the emergency back-up bowl. At those times, she knew who to call. Daddy. I would come to the far corner of the room and say, "Oh honey," and be genuinely sympathetic. I hate to see her sick and in pain. But Gary was doing SUCH an amazing job of taking care of her, who would I be to second-guess him and get in the way? How rude would that be?
Gary, by the way, is not a champion puker. She actually gets that from me, which he will readily admit. When we were first married, and he got the stomach flu, he would moan and groan and whine for hours. Finally he said to me, "My mom always came and held my head when I threw up at home." Without missing a beat I said, "Well you better get on the phone and tell her to get over here right away cause I will not be doing it." Yes, the secret to our marriage is communication.
My poor baby. She is really sick. Now I am hoping Laura doesn't get it. I am using Clorox Wipes around the house like a crazy person. Wish us luck.